


Catholicon

by steampunkepsilon



Category: Hyper Light Drifter
Genre: Almost Drowning, Blood, Fix-it for the pain, Other, Vomiting, again lots of bleeding im s o r r y, drifter/alt - Freeform, general sogginess, general tw, geographical nonreferencing, hld, if you look real close, inaccurate maps, jackal, lots of bleeding, the dog god, tired robots, townfolk coming to the rescue, vaguely religious water mammals, whoops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 13:33:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8403562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steampunkepsilon/pseuds/steampunkepsilon
Summary: noun1.    a universal remedy; a panacea.2.    a comprehensive treatise.





	1. With a Little Help From My Friend(s)

The world is crumbling, and Drifter is dying faster than any health injection could fix him.  
  
The jackal stays ahead of them, leading them away from the cell, the rapidly rotting corpse of Judgement, the floor falling up and down and the whole underground shaking so hard Alt can barely keep on her feet, or keep the Drifter on his. They’re both bleeding, but his is a deeper sickness, worse wounds; she can stay upright, practically dragging him along the darkened path out of the room. He keeps coughing, side split, leaving a trail of blood behind him while both their companion bots beep in frantic succession, unaware of their own uselessness.  
  
They come to a campfire, a great stone dog overlooking them even as its structure crumbles, and the jackal stops, silently overlooking them as they stagger and bleed. She wants to cry out, demand it do something, take them away from this dissolving hell, but as Drifter collapses into the wall and lies wheezing, it turns and disappears into the shadows; somehow the silence thickens, even though the ground is groaning and rumbling. Her companion seems to understand there’s no longer a point in pinging away about her dangerously low health; Drifter’s is still darting through the air like a bird, beeping and flashing with impressive vigor. She stands, heaving beside him, and the ground shakes, chunks of stone dropping into the grass and dirt around them.  
  
She could survive. She’s not like him, doesn’t bear his disease; killing the cell was murder, not suicide as it was for the blue Drifter. Weak, bleeding, yes, but not burning and rotting from the inside out. Glancing toward the dark abyss beyond this clearing, she watches the sky flash, seeming to crumble just like the ground around them. Maybe they aren’t underground, now; it’s too vast, too huge to be contained beneath the earth. She wonders if they’ve killed the world with the cell, too, but no -- it can’t have been that worthless.  
  
Drifter’s companion keeps pinging. He coughs again, shudders, and the grass turns pink and red in front of him.  
  
It feels wrong to die, after all they’ve been through. Unfair, for what they’ve sacrificed; she drops to her knees, catches Drifter’s frantic companion in a firm but gentle hand as it zips around them, and it practically screeches, confused beeping rapid and loud.  
  
“ Warp us, “ she says, muffled through the mask and blood, and it stops dead, silence filling the small space before it beeps again, slower, intoned with confusion. A faint green plus sign blips above it, curious, and she shakes her head, releasing it. “ _Warp us._ “  
  
A huge piece of statue slams into the ground beside them. Anywhere is better than here, and if they’re to die, she would rather die seeing the sun than a smoldering bed of coals and a rupturing machine. Her companion jolts and darts into her cloak, seeking shelter and planting itself inside her tunic somewhere. She braces her hands on either side of Drifter’s head, shielding him from the smaller debris that fall with her body, and his bot beeps again, hovering between them. Alt coughs again, wet and painful, and grabs a solid fistful of Drifter’s shirt, gripping it tight.  
  
“ Warp us, “ she repeats, and a screen flashes into existence shakily. She selects the first warp pad she sees, hands wrapping around Drifter’s body and pressing him close, the companion bot trapping itself between them with another rapid series of beeps. The air vibrates, air growing dense and wind rushing past, and bright light envelops them both; something high-pitched and tinny rings in their ears, and then as suddenly as it had come, the light disappears, plunging them into darkness and taking all sound with it.  
  
And then, they fall.

* * *

  
  
She wakes up to her companion, blipping at her slowly and hovering a few inches from her face. Vision swimming, the sky and sea blur into a gradient of blue and white, shapes coming into focus sluggishly as she groans and lifts her head from the glassy surface of the warp pad. It’s cool, wind blowing lazily off the water, sky bright but not blinding as clouds roll gently across it. Alt pushes her hands beneath her, shaking only a little as she raises herself onto her knees, looking around. The Eastern city, water glassy and teal beyond the stone walkways, structures peppered and patterned around them; no sign of anyone else, no frogs, none of the otter-like people, either, or others. Her bot blips again, circling her head, and she follows it, catching sight of the other companion, lying still on the pad; poor thing’s battery probably exhausted itself in the warp.  
  
Just beyond it, Drifter is crumpled over the edge of the platform, a river of blood dripping down the steps beneath him and into the water.  
  
“ Drifter, “ she says, tearing off the mask and letting it fall aside as she scrambles on hand and knee to his side, one hand gripping his shoulder and rolling him onto his back. There’s blood everywhere, soaking the front of him, and his head lolls to the side, coughing and vomiting up more with a tense shudder. When he settles again, chest heaving, she scrambles, unfastening her cloak and then his, rolling them up and situating it beneath his head as best she can before going to work on the rest of his clothes. His helmet comes away first, and his scarf, then the bracers, tossed aside with little care in the moment. His hair is a filthy mess, slick with sweat where he isn’t bloodied, and she does what she can to get the cool air to his too-hot skin; eventually she manages to get him down to the long-sleeved undershirt and his leggings, stripping herself down to the same and standing to look around. Some plants growing nearby, old crates, and what looks to be the remnants of a campsite across a walkway. “ Stay, “ she urges, as if he’s going anywhere, and darts off across the stone barefoot, keeping an eye out in case they have company.  
  
There’s an old cookpan in the tent, and she runs it back, kneeling at the edge of the water to gather some up and returning to the warp pad. It’s not perfect, but it’s cold and clean enough, and it takes some work to coax him into drinking. Most of it runs down his chin, tinged pink with the blood and whatever else he might be coughing up, but a few sips go down and he seems to have exhausted himself of anything substantial to bring up for now. Another pan full to rinse his face, another for the deep gash slicing through his midsection; the blood has finally started to clot, and he isn’t well, but he’s breathing.  
  
They’re alive. For now, at least.  
  
She manages to stitch the wound shut, makeshift thread and a lucky salvaged needle, and slowly, carefully pulls him down to the water’s edge; she can’t risk submerging him and throwing his frail body into shock, but she lays him out along the edge and slides in herself, able to rinse the worst of it off before shaking out and getting him as clean as possible. He coughs periodically, spitting up blood, but doesn’t speak much, drifting in and out of consciousness. Her companion blips about, primarily interested in keeping watch and staying on the lookout, and sometimes making concerned noises in the direction of Drifter’s bot, still decidedly out of power.  
  
The air is quiet, the sky is clear and calm, the ground still.  
  
She can’t help but feel ill at ease, waiting for something to attack, for the sky to split open, the water to up and swallow them whole. Even when Drifter’s wheezy, labored breathing eases off into something a little steadier and his side is wrapped up with makeshift bandages, and her own wounds have been tended to, she sits beside him and waits, watches, anxious.  
  
She’s not sure she can defend them both, if something does come. She’s not even sure she can defend herself. Drifter is barely conscious, both of them at what she can only imagine to be dismally low health; a med injection would be a godsend, but from her limited experience with gods, she’s not sure she wants them sending anything her way at this point.  
  
Are they alive? Are they really? Maybe this is limbo, or the afterlife, or hell itself --  
  
“ Alt? “  
  
She jerks back into the moment, unsure of how much time has passed, and looks down; Drifter is watching her through heavy black eyes, half-open and wet. His mouth is wet, too, another stain of magenta at the corner of his lips, and she exhales shakily, moving to wipe it away, free hand cradling his jaw. His voice is barely comprehensible, rough and raw, but he swallows, trying with every ounce of effort in his body. “ ...where… where? “ is all he manages.  
  
“ The East, “ she provides. “ We warped here. It’s over, now. “  
  
He blinks slowly, breathing out a bit. “ The...th’cell…”  
  
“ Dead. Judgement has passed. The jackal’s gone, too, no telling where. Haven’t seen another soul here since we landed, but it looks as it did. “  
  
Drifter nods a tiny bit, gears still turning in his brain; the pain likely doesn’t help much, or the exhaustion. Alt rests a hand against his chest, over his collarbone, able to feel the rattle of his lungs when he inhales, and he seems to appreciate the contact. He closes his eyes for a moment, breathing, and he turns his face into the cool stone, opening them again.  
  
“ I feel terrible, “ he croaks, coughing a little, and Alt snorts.  
  
“ I should think so, after the mess you were, “ she murmurs, moving carefully to adjust the roll of cloth under his head, propping him up a bit with her cloak until he can look around more easily. She hasn’t had the strength to move them somewhere more sheltered yet, and he scans the water stretching out to one side, then the steps and walkways on the other, content enough to stay resting. The blood still stains the warp pad and the steps around it, and he grimaces weakly.  
  
“ That bad? “ he murmurs, lifting one hand to touch his stomach faintly. Alt nods, and he makes another face, nose crinkling up at the thought and letting his head sag back. She keeps her hand on him, and eventually he moves his own up to rest over it, the connection good -- real. It makes it easier to believe, to hope that they actually made it, and perhaps easier to avoid thinking about how they might not yet be out of the woods.  
  
“ Where’s… my compa -- oh, “ he speaks up after another couple of minutes, looking around and settling on the little bot, lying on the ground near the rest of their soiled clothes, still inactive, and his face falls a little. “ ...Oh. “  
  
“ No -- no. It’s alright. “ Alt reaches over, plucks it up carefully, and sets it in his hand. “ Not damaged. I think it just exhausted itself warping us here. Maybe, once we get back to town… “  
  
Drifter picks it up, rubbing dirt away from the tiny glass screen. “... I don’t...I’m not sure I can walk, “ he admits softly after a moment, and she shakes her head a little, looking towards the path that leads towards the town, if she recalls properly. It’s been a while, but there are trees in the far distance, and that must mean something.  
  
“ I can, “ she says, quiet but firm. “ And I’ll carry you, if I must. “  
  
He doesn’t respond, but she can see his expression shift to something humbled, something tender, and they both fall quiet again, looking out over the water for a while before he slips off again into sleep. She’s thankful he isn’t awake to feel the way she reaches over and checks his pulse, just to ease her own mind; better they feign confidence for now. It may be what gets them home, and she’s perfectly content to pretend.

* * *

  
  
She stays awake the whole night, in case there are still hostile folk around, but not a single soul passes them by, nor does she hear a sound besides bugs flittering over the water, a few occasional fish swimming by. Drifter sleeps, uneasy and waking up every couple of hours to cough and shiver, but at least he sleeps, and when the sun rises again he wakes with a raspy groan, his makeshift bandages soaked through. She tosses then, rips fresh ones from her cloak, and wraps him up again; it will do for the moment, and she helps him sit up stiffly once his wounds are dressed, tucking his cloak -- _His_ cloak, they both think and do not say -- around his shoulders and holstering both swords and ammoless pistols around her waist. He’s strong enough to stand briefly, leaning on the nearest wall with labored breath, and he can wrap his arms around her neck well enough. It takes some work, but in the end, Alt has him settled piggyback-style, and won’t let him argue. She doesn’t mention how much lighter he is, just fixes him with a scowl until he gives in, and they head off.  
  
The walkways are clear and flat, a few sets of stairs, but manageable. When they reach waterways, she’s lucky enough to still be able to dash across the gaps, and while they nearly tumble into the rivers more than once, they manage. Drifter lapses out of consciousness here and there, even after a night’s sleep, but he’s lost a great deal of blood and he was already weak before they faced Judgement. She can feel him breathing over her shoulder, raggedly, but he is breathing, at least. He coughs, too, but there can only _possibly_  be so much blood left in him to cough up.  
  
They walk, they stop to rest, to drink, and keep walking, and eventually, night falls on a blessedly uneventful day. They’re lucky enough to have made it to one of the small temples, empty and worn but standing, and Alt settles him in a corner where they have privacy and room to lay out. She leaves long enough to get fresh water, and this time Drifter is strong enough to drink on his own; deceptive strength, probably temporary, but she’s glad for it all the same. He curls up on his better side, and she lets him tuck his face against her thigh while he rests, huddled under the spare clothes and both cloaks to keep warm. One hand in his hair, she keeps watch, ears twitching to attention at every potential threat, but the night is quiet, enough even for her to doze here and there. She eventually lets herself drift off to sleep, too, exhausted and aching. It’s brief, maybe a couple of hours at best, but it’s not as if they’re used to much better by now, and when she jerks herself awake, Drifter is even looking a little better. Still sickly and exhausted, but bleeding less, and she’ll take what she can get.  
  
She lets him sleep until the sun is up, keeping an ear out for footsteps and stroking his hair quietly. He doesn’t wake so easily when she finally shakes his shoulder, groaning and turning into her thigh more stubbornly; half of her is glad some of his resolution has returned, and the other half is concerned that he’s even less capable of sitting up on his own than he was yesterday. Drifter curls up against her side and drinks slowly, and the trembling has stopped more or less, but he’s weaker now, movements sluggish and faint. When they get themselves together to move onwards again, he can only barely keep a hold around her shoulders, and Alt tightens her grip underneath him. He doesn’t slip, but there’s only so much time until he does, and she would vastly rather be home before that time comes.  
  
They make it to the edge of the structures, the last proper river crossing, before she missteps, the stone steps deceptive and crumbling under the water when she jumps to one from a higher ledge. Alt yells as she feels them drop, and Drifter tightens his grasp around her only marginally, tipping backwards into the cold water with a flail and a splash. The combined weight sends them down a good distance, and Drifter slips free, Alt clawing her way to the surface to wrangle out of the holsters and slam both swords and guns down on the half-crumbled block before diving back in. He was awake, thankfully, but still startled, struggling to bring himself to the surface, legs kicking weakly. She pushes off the pillar beneath the water, catching him with one arm around the side and kicking hard as she can to bring them back up.  
  
They reach the surface, gasping, and she swims to the next platform, half-pushing and half-throwing him onto it with whatever strength she can muster, and he lands on the stone with a wet slop, heaving a little while she grips the side of the pillar shakily. The ordeal couldn’t have lasted more than a minute, but she feels blood pumping through her like she’s just dashed a hundred times, relief only slight in the face of the panic that she’d almost just lost him, after all this struggle to get this far -  
  
“ Are you alright? “ she asks, shaking herself out of it, and all she gets in response is an awful hacking noise, claws digging into the step and pulling herself up as best she can beside him. There isn’t much room, maybe a three foot square, and she has to straddle him to keep from falling, hunched over him while he coughs up water. The cold was a shock, and the thrashing and coughing couldn’t possibly help, stitches tested too much and blood seeping through his shirt again. He twists painfully, trying to work it out of his lungs and taking in painful, rattling breaths between spasms of coughs, and only succeeds in making himself retch again, water and blood. It doesn’t last, not nearly as long as before, but when it’s over he just lays there shaking and gulping in air, unable to respond to her questions right away. She gives him a moment, panting herself and moving his cloak away from his face, about to ask him again when branches crack and shift across the water.  
  
Whipping her head up, she grabs for the hard light blade lying next to Drifter on the platform, praying whatever is coming has limited ammunition, or limited numbers. The other blueskins - the ones below the city, the ones they’d been fighting - they would most likely be dead, too weak to fight the mass surge from the Cell. But there were plenty of other enemies, even just in the East, the toads, wild animals...anything. Her hand shakes a fraction, gripping the blade tighter and yanking it from its sheath as she straightens.  
  
A cluster of people move round the edge of the buildings, all the same the otter folk native to this area; carrying bags, some holding crude weapons, or children. Alt wavers only briefly, watching them cautiously before one seems to catch sight of her, barking out some sound of surprise and the others following suit with sudden, panicked chatter. It makes her start a little, not sure what turn this could take, but they were a peaceful people before, even during their overthrowing, and she holds off on reaching for a pistol. Eventually one darts forward, no weapon in hand and wearing tattered robes, gesturing wildly and seeking more common words.  
  
“ Drifters! “ he calls finally, skidding to the edge of the main platform and looking over both of them. Drifter glances back from where he’s curled in on himself, and the otterperson’s face falls, not one iota of fear on his face in regards to Alt’s defensive stance. “ ...Wounded. Both of you? “  
  
Alt sheaths the blade, straightening. “ Him worse than me, “ she explains, and the otter nods quickly, turning back to the company and calling to them. There’s some bit of discussion, and two of them hand off heavier packs to others in the group before darting over to the water’s edge.  
  
“ They will help you. You’re going to the town in the center, yes? “ the first one asks, gesturing for her to hand them their things. Alt looks them over warily, hesitant, but with a brief nudge from Drifter at her ankles she obliges, passing them weapons and what few supplies they have. Once their things have been set down neatly on the stones across from them, one of the other otters slides into the water, coming up to grasp Drifter’s shoulders gently. He nods towards his legs, pointing, and Alt holds his ankles up, enough that by moving back, he can hold Drifter just above the water, close enough to the other side that the others can pull him up onto dry land again and lay him down gently. They work swiftly and gracefully, cradling his weak body like something breakable, and she can’t say they’re wrong at this point. The rest of the otters have moved closer, some jostling crying children or nursing wounds, but all curious and concerned. Alt dashes the distance to the ground once everything else has crossed, wringing out her clothing a bit more and doing the same for Drifter. The otters cluster together again, fussing amongst themselves, and the apparent leader taps her shoulder lightly a few moments later.  
  
“ It is not much, but it will get you home, “ he explains, and she follows his gesturing hand to the makeshift gurney they’ve cobbled together. Two walking sticks and a blanket strung between them, it isn’t pretty, but it is a sight to be worshipped right now, and the two bring it over to lay it beside him. “ You must be quick. They will take you to the town, and from there… “ His face twists into something sad briefly, nervously glancing between her the Drifter. “ ...we cannot do much more. But we wish you the best. “  
  
He stoops down, kneeling at Drifter’s side, and she imagines what he murmurs in his ear is a prayer or a word of thanks. Once he stands again, he takes her hand, and clasps it between both of his thicker paws. “ You have saved us, and we are grateful, “ he said, eyes fierce with sincerity. “ And now you must save yourselves. Be safe for us. “  
  
Normally, she stays quiet, especially in circumstances of emotion; emotions are complicated and fleeting, and words are the same way, and touch is something she’s never been particularly fond or comfortable with aside from a choice few conditions. But she clasps her own hand over his this time, squeezing it back. “ We will. And you’ve saved us as much as we ever did for you, “ she promises, and he laughs briefly, pulling away. The others gather close to him again, one of them carrying their pack, and besides Drifter’s sword lying beside him on the cot and his small pistol in his lap, Alt handles the weapons. They’re both still a soggy mess, but she feels warmed by the brief show of kindness, and Drifter looks a scant bit better even bloody and shivering under Guardian’s cloak as he is, silent robot companion tucked into his shirt. The otters gather around them once the makeshift gurney has been lifted between the two, and soft paws lay on both of them as they make way for the edge where forest and water meet.They mark their path the way the otters have just come, moving swiftly, and march on; It’s strange, almost surreal, but it feels...  
  
Hopeful.


	2. Chapter 2: It Takes a Village

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old bandages for new wounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another 'finished halfway, left, randomly finished and immediately posted' chapter! Excuse any jittery....anything. Names are confusing, and this is partly from Alt's singular perspective, and she doesn't strike me as the type to recall everyone's actual name a.k.a. my excuse for not researching this in-depth. Also mishmashed medical/technical terms and fudged details in every corner. Enjoy!

It seems even the surface took damage from the quake, but none of them pay much mind to the new cracks in the earth and fallen bits of rock. It’s all still now, and the only time any of the three of them acknowledge it is when it bars their way; even then, the two otters are incredibly efficient, following her lead along the safest route she can find and keeping Drifter on the blanket as best they can. He nods in and out of consciousness, trying to be awake, alert; but makeshift bandages and stitching aside, he is waning, and they don’t require anything of him besides that he keep breathing. 

They come across a couple of creatures, metallic spiders here and there, one stray dog that takes little more than a few swipes and some shouting to drive away; spooked by the quake, she imagines, and the otters let her handle them, staying back and fiercely protective of their cargo. They stop only once as they move, for Drifter’s sake as a coughing fit takes him, and they set him down to upright him so he can work the blood and water out of his lungs. The otters scout ahead a short distance, clear some branches while Alt sees to him, and once he can lay back again and rest, they move again. Their helpers seem just as determined to keep him alive as she is, and it’s humbling after the adversity they’ve faced, seeing them haul him with care and no complaints. It’s not long, but with the weight of another body and the crumbled terrain, it’s slow, the sight of the last crevasse behind them is a relief.

“ We’re close, “ he murmured, and the others nod, Drifter too out of it at this point to hear her. “ If you need to get back… “

The otters look at one another briefly, and the language barrier pauses them, but they look to her again, shaking their heads. “ We get you into town, “ one said firmly. “ Somewhere safe. “

She nods a little back, not at all ready to push the issue, and moves on ahead, relief flooding her chest when she spots the edge of the steps leading into the vast square, only a short distance away around the edges of the cliffs here. Ignoring bones and bodies, she waves them on behind her, dashing briefly to make certain their path is safe and letting them follow as they could. When they were finally at the last stretch, she ran ahead, waving to catch the attention of the guard there; he jolts, starting and raising his weapon, then lowering it as he recognizes her at least vaguely, running to meet her. 

“ Drifters, you’re -- oh, “ he begins, voice crackling through the protective mask as the otters bring Drifter to them, holding fast. “ He’s - “

“ Alive, but wounded, “ she interrupts quickly. “ The Apothecary, please, we need to get him there. “

The guard pauses, nods, then darts off, skidding down the steps and taking a sharp right. They can hear him shouting for the Apothecary, and the otters begin to carry him down the stone steps carefully, other townfolk perking up and moving at the commotion. One tall mech stalks into view, blipping curiously, and another Blueskin as well, one they’d seen before; another otter as well, moving from beside the pharmacy out into the open. Several far-off bystanders come closer as well, and someone shouts out that the Drifters had come back, and suddenly, it was like a wave of hands rushing toward them. Alt staggers, sliding down the steps in front of the gurney to ward them off, but the townfolk remain undeterred, gathering at the sides of the makeshift bed and ferrying Drifter to the bottom like an oiled machine. They move as one and lay him on the tamped-down grass there, spreading out to give him space, and the otters nod firmly, ducking their heads. 

“ Look after him, “ they state firmly, and Alt thanks them; without another word, they dart back up the stairs towards their liberated East, leaving Drifter surrounded by the people, and then just as suddenly not surrounded as the Apothecary nearly throws them aside to clear a path. He’s a short, stout creature, brown and shaggy, and his voice grates like gravel, but he’s surprisingly commanding in tone. The other Blueskin and the Mech stay a little closer, the others backing off within hearing range but out of the way, and he kneels by Drifter, an ear to his chest. 

Alt swallows. “ He’s alive, but the sickness - “

“ It’s killing him, “ the Blueskin provides, with an expression grave enough to tell he’d felt this axe before, either personally or with someone close. It wouldn’t have shocked her; they were all ill with it, to some extent, but the ones who fought it bore the worst wounds. “ Inside - “

“ Organs are failing, “ the Apothecary says abruptly, taking Drifter’s pulse under his jaw and pressing his other hand into his side where the wound has split. He groans weakly, and the Apothecary doesn’t seem to mind that his hands come away wet with blood. Wiping them on his thighs, he points to the Blueskin. “ Go to the Dash Master, he’ll know what to do. You, “ he adds, giving the Mech a brief tap to grab its attention. “ Go get the shopkeep with the bombs. Tell ‘em to get over here. “ He rolls up his sleeves, beckoning Alt to help him with the stretcher, and she lifts it, surprised to find it easier than expected; the shopkeeper is deceptively strong, and he turns, moving toward the pharmacy. “ Everybody else, spread the word, get yourselves in order. “

The mech thumps off, and the Blueskin is gone before Alt sees him move; the rest of them besides the otter they usually see gardening beside the pharmacy disperse, slowly at first and then rushing off, presumably to spread the word. Alt leaves her focus on getting Drifter inside the shop, and the Apothecary leads her back, pausing while the otter, with equally deceptive strength, hauls raised garden beds out of the way, pushing them all against the back wall in short rows and then moving into the cluttered back of the shop, returning with a thick, rolled bundle and a cushion. Laid out flat, it makes an acceptable bedroll, and the two of them lay Drifter down again, transferring him over.

Quick work is made of his clothes with a pair of blunt-tipped shears, the cloak removed carefully and the rest of it stripped or cut as quickly as possible, discarded into a pile along with the makeshift stitching. While he tends to that, the otter pulls Alt over, unfolding a collapsible table stashed behind a shelf and letting her empty their supplies out, including both battery-worn companion bots and her own damp clothes. Modesty is no longer something she has a grip on, stripping quickly and accepting the scavenged clothing the otter returns with, a pair of loose trousers and a tunic. Nothing fancy or able to withstand the weather, and a bit narrow for her broad shoulders, but it would do. The otter has returned from the back room with a handful of wires and battery packs by the time she’s changed, swiftly hooking up the drained bot companions and eventually finding the appropriate matching outputs to get them charging properly. 

“ They’ll be a while. But they survived the water damage, “ she assures her, glancing over at her partner as if wishing she could say the same of him. Alt follows her gaze, the Apothecary quickly rifling through a crate of jars and paper bags, slopping spoonfuls or dashes or in some cases handfuls of odd substances into a wooden bowl nearby, stirring it all into a thick paste. Washing his hands and soaking a rag in the sink, he returns, kneeling to carefully clean the wounds where possible. Alt follows, sinking to her knees, observant but keeping her hands to herself for the moment, much as she wants to comfort his trembling, ease his pain. 

“ You should be dead, “ the old man says, gruff, but triumphant as he unrolls a few wide strips of gauze. “ Damn lucky you're not. This -- “ He taps Drifter’s hip, just below the ugly wound she’d poorly mended. “ -- this alone shoulda done you in. With or without your insides rotting with it. “

“ Let me go, then, “ he croaks, voice thin with the effort, more exhaustion than misery in his words, and it pains her somewhere deep in her gut to see his energy waned so thin. She understands, but still. “ I’ve done my duty. “

A surprise to them both, the old beast laughs, a sharp, grating bark of amusement as he picks up a small wooden spatula. “ Oh, no, “ he says, waggling it at the Drifter scoldingly, eyes sharp. “ Didn't let that other one die, ain’t lettin’ you go anywhere without a fight. “

He pauses, Drifter contemplative, weak but with a tiny shred of defiance still left in him even if his will to live had vacated the premises. “ I’ve fought my fight, “ he murmurs after a moment, and the Apothecary scoffs, winking. 

“ Ain’t fought me. “ He scrapes up a thick glob of the mixture and spackles it across Drifter’s middle with a wet slap, earning him what might have been a shout in a stronger body but presented itself as a hoarse whine. “ And I ain’t losin’ someone just because I didn't try. “

 

  
The paste the old man slathers onto every gaping, deep wound is eventually plastered over with strips of gauze, unfazed by any amount of blood or whining that comes during the slow, painstaking process. Hands filthy, he finally sits back on his haunches with a gruff noise, overlooking the progress and giving the room a short, stern nod before standing. Alt had eventually taken up post at Drifter’s head, one knee folded underneath his nape, stroking back sweat-slick hair. He’s slipped into a haze, breath laboring in and out of quick pained pants and slow, uncomfortable drags in between presses and prods. But his wounds are sealed, clean, even if he looks no better for it. Dunking his hands and face into a basin of water in the sink along one wall, the Apothecary shakes himself out and dries off once clean, dropping the dishes in the water and moving back.

“ Roll him on his side - the good side. Well, the better side, “ he huffs, leaning to help Alt as she carefully removes herself and shimmies him up off the mat, head resting against the bedroll. The elder rolls up another thinner blanket and jams it under his waist, then another blanket was laid overtop, the whole mess unsightly but functional. “ We’ll have to watch him through the night, see to it he doesn’t choke on bile or blood. If he makes it through till morning, we’ll have a chance. “ Fur mussed and wild, he pulls off the scrubby hat, tossing it aside with a sigh. “ Where’s that damn tech junkie - “

“ Apothecary! “ a voice chimes in, shop door sliding open swiftly, and the aforementioned tech junkie apparently has perfect timing, panting a bit but carrying a laden satchel, seeming more than alarmed at the state of things, opening and shutting his beak a few times uneasily. “ Oh - oh, no. “

“ I’m gonna need batteries, “ the older one says, sharp, pointing at him. “ Big’uns. Same as last time but more. It’ll need to run indefinitely. “

The bird fumbles, brow screwed up in confusion and concern. “ I don’t know if I can get enough t-”

“ Well start lookin’ now. You can salvage enough to get started. “ He slides around the table, otter almost machine-like as she passes him a few more jars of murky, colored liquid, some of it looking as much like medicine as poison. A few thick pours of each into a glass bottle and a vigorous shake, and he slugs back a drink, grimacing as his fur seemed to wire up on all ends in a shudder. “ I’ll work the night through. Get that boy out there to help, hell, get anyone who can lift one. I got enough wires and glass repair, we’ll manage. You see the Dash go off? “ he went on, voice a little hoarse from the drink as he takes another swig, thumps the bottle down and turns to rifle through whatever piles of….assorted junk sit against the dark far wall. Alt furrows her brow, glancing at the shopkeeper as he makes a noncommittal gesture. 

“ I saw him run off, yeah, “ he says finally. “ Not sure where. “

“ I know where. He’ll be back, “ the older one waves, gesturing. “ G’on, get movin’. We don’t have time to dawdle. “ 

He nods, gives Alt an odd, perhaps nervous look, then scrambles off out the door again, footsteps flap-flap-flapping down the dirt road through town. Standing slowly, she turns, watching the alchemist cautiously. “ Batteries for what? “

He glances over his shoulder, nodding towards Drifter. “ They ain’t like you and me, “ he starts off, wiping the corner of his mouth with a clawed hand. “ Like most of us. You saw the underbelly, the inside of the world. And the other Blues. “

Tanks, teeming with mold and growth, old bodies floating in formaldehyde. Bigger, older bodies, escaped but dead. She grimaces a little, glancing at Drifter and then up again, defensive. “ And that means what, precisely? “

“ It means - “ another grunt, a thud, hauling a thick, metal cable up off the floor and slinging it onto the table to look it over, “ - that what might fix you and me up ain’t gonna fix him. The darkness didn’t touch you because you didn’t come from it. The journey didn’t wear on you like it might have if you came outta one of those vats, because your insides weren’t its’ insides. They’re connected. “ He holds up his hands, old and spindly, lacing them together tightly as a visual. “ You struck that beast down, and it took the rest of ‘em with it because it was glued into their systems. Fueling them, feeding them, feeding from ‘em. Now, you get far enough away, the sickness eases. You leave the beast be and maybe you make it out. Him, though, not so much. “

Alt narrows her eyes again, stroking a hand over Drifter’s hair before straightening to slowly skirt around the table. “ So? You can’t just fix him? “

“ I can’t fix him, “ he confirms. “ But like I said. Ain’t givin’ up on him, not when you just spared the world. “ He slams down another bundle of cables, checking wires and plugs, shoving crates aside. “ Extensive tests on the fluid those underground tanks were filled with weren’t spot-on in terms of gettin’ results, but I’m very good at my job, you see. And my job is figurin’ out how to keep you wandering fools alive, whatever the cost, whatever the method. “ Turning, he looks up, and Alt realizes, slowly, that the darkness in one side of the shop, behind the goods being shoved aside, is less a wall and more of a curtain, a shroud, and with one firm grip and a yank, it swoops off the form, fluttering to the ground with a thump. 

Underneath it stands a tall, cylindrical tank, thick glass and a heavy metal base, at least seven feet tall, dark and empty aside from a few puddles of murky, pinkish liquid at the bottom. It’s too familiar, something sick twisting her gut, but she looks at him, giving him the benefit of doubtful questioning before raising judgement. 

“ This stuff is their blood, bread and butter, “ he says, tapping the glass, the echo hollow and dismal. “ I don’t know if it’ll work. But I know I can’t fix him. None of us can. Best we can do is try. All we got left. “

She levels him with a look, uneasily glancing at the empty vessel. “ This is our only option? “ she says, though it’s not so much a question as confirmation of what she expects his answer will be, and he nods grimly. 

“ Grew ‘em in these tanks, kept them in stasis, healed ‘em. If I thought the regenerating crystals were trustworthy enough, I’d have suggested them, but he’s not strong enough to make it that far. “ he claps his hand against the tank with a dull thud, letting it slide free with a sideways look toward the Drifter. “ I give him a night, maybe the day tomorrow. Our only other option is giving him a respectful burial, and i suppose I’m just too damn stubborn to make that call yet. “ Another drink of whatever cocktail of no-sleep-on-the-horizon he’s whisked up, looking back to her, eyes steely. “ I’m a lot of things. Lot of folks here are a lot of things. But most of what we are is grateful. And he’s fought enough. I’ll fistfight that devil dog myself before I let it lead him home. “

Alt pauses again, following his gaze back towards her partner, sleeping, weak. Rotting from the inside out on the ground of a shop after all his trouble, all his loss and sacrifice. Nights spent bleeding in the cold, in the heat, aching, coughing up bile and whatever other horrors built up in his system every time they crested too close to the heart. They could give him the mercy of a gentle death, a kind end, dignity. 

He wouldn’t want that. 

“ Alright, “ she says, turning back, rolling up the tunic sleeves. “ What are we going to need? “

The old man smiles despite the situation, eyes glinting at the shred of hope and running a hand through moppy hair. Turning, he scuffs it back and tugs the hat on once more inhaling deep and sighing as he stares up into the tank. 

“ Gonna need help, “ he says finally, giving a terse nod. “ And lots of it. “


End file.
